


Losing a star without a sky

by glovered



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bakery, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-17 06:16:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glovered/pseuds/glovered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean investigate a series of small town murders. Meanwhile, they haven't been the most successful when it comes to interpersonal communication, so Sam tries other tactics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Losing a star without a sky

Sam ran his finger along the bottom of the page, which was yellowed with ages of bottom library shelf life. He was reading, thinking the author really should devote more time to detail because some audiences require a more how-to style format when it comes to ritual sacrifices.

Dean, meanwhile, was off checking out whatever fell a hundred down on the Dewey-decimal system. Which, judging by his arched eyebrow and the purse of his lips, wasn't about the job. Sam leaned a shoulder carefully against the shelf and watched Dean's lips shape the words as he read silently, and felt a sad tug in his chest because Dean hadn't really talked to him in weeks.

Realizing he was feeling jealous of a book, Sam looked back to his own book. He flipped through, page by page until something about demonic sacrifices caught his eye. When he flipped back, he cut his finger.

"Oww." He held up his hand to look at the drop of blood beading out on his index finger, from a library book on bloodletting of all things.

Dean put his book anywhere on the shelf in front of him and came over.

"Let me see that." He took Sam's hand and gingerly touched Sam's fingers with his. Sam watched Dean's eyelashes lowering, mouth parting. "It's a deep one."

"What?"

It really wasn't a deep one. It was a shallow, non-threatening paper cut, if that.

"You'll be fine," Dean said. "There's a band aid kicking around the glove compartment." Even so, his fingers tightened. 

"It hurts like a bitch," Sam lied, having a hard time hearing himself over the heartbeat in his head. When Dean's tongue flicked out to wet his bottom lip, Sam felt a jump in his chest. If Dean kissed it better, Sam would probably die he wanted it so bad.

They were standing a foot apart in the stacks, in the far back of the library. It was warm. Early fall. October burnt out of doors but it was shady in here, just them and two little old ladies talking sci-fi at a round table by the periodicals and a librarian who'd been happily shelving books when they'd walked in. It made sense that Sam was feeling shocky.

"Crybaby," Dean said, tone so fond it curled up in Sam's insides. "Let's make sure this is all the blood you shed on this job, okay?"

He ran his thumb over the back of Sam's hand before letting go. There was book dust in Sam's eyes but he couldn't help standing eyes-open watching Dean walk away.

He only let himself blink when Dean turned to say, "Come on, daylight's burning."

"Jesus," Sam said, breathing finally, sucking his finger into his mouth and striding after him.

On the drive over to the county morgue, Sam unwrapped a blowpop and stuck it in his mouth. He'd been trying to get Dean's attention for weeks and he thought this would be the best way to do it. He and Dean had absolutely failed at having real discussions, so Sam had moved on to Plan B. Dean totally had an oral fixation, always chewing straws or biting the edge of a nail, resting pen caps on his bottom lip when he was reading articles to underline, and Sam had a whole party bag of super-sized blowpops in a grocery bag in the front seat. If this didn't work, Sam didn't know what would.

Dean didn't even look over once, not until they were at the morgue and the body of Rick Jackson slid out of the cold unit, blued with refrigeration and with a sheet drawn up to its chin.

"Thirty-four year old white male," Dennis the lab guy said, double-checking against the details on his clipboard. "Third grade teacher and man of the hour."

"Report said there's 'cult-like markings' on his chest?'" Dean asked, heavy on the air quotes as Sam threw away the blowpop stick in disgust.

"Yep." Dennis snapped on a glove and folded the sheet down to the body's waist. He gestured to the obvious. "Oblong circle with some jagged lines. Relatively fresh. Body found in a barn two days ago."

Sam leaned in to examine the markings. It looked almost like an angel banishing sigil except for context and the overwhelming feeling that this had nothing to do with Heaven.

"There's some dirt in there," he said. "May I?"

"Knock yourself out."

When he reached over to the tool tray, Dennis said, "Watch out. Scalpel’s sharp."

Sam paused, meeting the guy's eyes with the scalpel hovering over the body. "I'm aware."

Dennis made a conceding gesture and Sam went ahead and scraped at the gunk built-up in the cuts. It was definitely dirt. When he'd gathered a decent amount, he wiped it onto the palm of his gloved hand, turned the glove inside out, and put it in his pocket.

"You know anything about this guy?"

"Yeah, sad story. Rick totally asked his girl to marry him and she said no. Then he turns up dead. Girl tells his family it wasn't that she didn't want to marry him, it's that she had stomach cancer and hadn't told him, but it was too late."

"And have you seen all the bodies?"

"Yep. Been here for every one of them."

"Then maybe you can help us out. We couldn't find a connection between vics. All male, but that's about it."

"Was wondering about that. The murders have happened seemingly at random, no pattern as far as I can tell." 

"You see a lot of this in these parts?"

"Guys with radishes cut into their chests? No, can't say that we do."

"You think that's a radish?" Sam personally thought it looked like a mana from back when he used to play Magic.

"Nah. It kind of looks like a Magic card mana symbol."

Sam stared at him. "I was seriously just thinking that."

"Oh yeah?" Dennis grinned. "Great minds, man. Great minds."

"Stomach contents?" Dean interrupted.

Dennis flipped to his chart again. "One red velvet cupcake."

"Wow, that's specific."

"Well, it's a local specialty. Have a Heart Bakery, best cupcakes in the state, I'd recognize them anywhere." He ran a hand over the back of his neck, then frowned at his gloves, and threw them in the trash and went to wash the back of his neck off with a wet paper towel.

Sam looked at Dean then back to the lab guy. "Well."

"I'm sure I'll be seeing you sooner rather than later," Dennis said.

"Why do you say that?"

"The killings are escalating. Three over the past five months, but then two in the last couple weeks. Doesn't take an FBI agent to figure that one out I guess."

"Or maybe you should work for the FBI," Sam said.

Dennis smiled again, real affable. "Mighty kind of you."

"All right," Dean said. "Time for lunch. Where does a guy get a good sandwich in this town?"

"Try the bakery on third."

"That happen to be the last place Ricky ate?"

"Yup."

"Ha," Dean said. "Very funny."

Dennis grinned. "You guys have a good one."

He waved them out.

They found the bakery, a little corner place with flowerpots on the porch. They'd sat down by the window and ordered and then hadn't talked since.

Dean was seemingly at ease and staring into the middle distance, tapping a slow unrecognizable song out onto the vinyl tabletop and Sam unwrapped another blowpop and started sucking despondently. Dean had been gone eleven months, and every one of them had been useless. And now here Dean was, tapping, and Sam wanted to grab his hand over the tabletop and hold it, or do something similarly uncomfortable on both their parts.

"You think he came here a lot?" Sam asked when he got tired of trying furtively to catalogue any small reaction Dean might be having to him sucking on something right in front of him. He mainly just felt stupid.

"Huh? Who?"

"Our vic."

Dean stared at him. "You're not seriously suggesting this place — this frilly, Christmas-carols-by-Thanksgiving place — has anything to do with the murders."

"Why not? We know he was here."

"Okay fine, it's not off the table. We'll keep an eye out." Dean looked down at his phone. "Anyway, I sent over a picture of the symbol to our anthropology professor contact. We'll see if he finds anything."

Sam snorted. "Before next semester, at least."

When the server came over and dropped off their plates, she wiped her hands on her apron and said, "First time at Have a Heart?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "Just passing through."

"You don't say? Well, my name's Charlene and we have a special policy here."

Dean leaned forward. "Oh yeah, and what's that?"

"No one can leave without trying our world-famous red velvet cupcakes." She put a small plate with two mini-cupcakes between them. "You boys enjoy."

Sam smiled. "Thanks."

When she was gone, Dean busted up laughing.

"What?"

"Your teeth are totally blue," Dean said.

"Well," Sam held up the blowpop. "Blue raspberry."

"Yeah. Ha! Stick out your tongue."

"No," Sam said, glowering. He didn't even like blue raspberry.

"Come on."

He did like Dean laughing, though. He stuck his tongue out but mostly out of annoyance, because how long was this going to take? He thought about how he could literally fellate a blowpop – _blow_ pop — in front of Dean, but something inconsequential as a paper cut got Dean crowding up against him in the cult section, breathing the same dusty air and going crazy protective.

"You gonna eat yours?" Dean asked, Sam's cupcake halfway to his mouth already.

"Nah, you have it."

"Sweet. After we eat, let's head over to the farm where the body was found."

"Sure."

Sam stretched his arms over his head for a second before he slumped back into the booth, and he could have sworn Dean's eyes trailed down his chest for a split second. Sam felt renewed conviction; there was something there, even if Dean wasn't conscious of it.

Maybe Sam'd been trying to hit all the wrong buttons with sucking on things and basically telling Dean they were going to settle down together and stop hunting. That second one only made Dean angry every time Sam brought it up. So yeah, maybe Dean had an oral fixation and a white picket fence fantasy, but he also had a savior complex a mile wide and Sam could work that one, too. He wasn't above exploitation.

This decided, when Dean looked up next, licking frosting off his finger, Sam's grin was a just-you-wait, candy flavored thing.

The farmland that spread out from town was a dull yellow stretch that ran the one highway out. A deep wind sucked dark clouds across the sky, flattening the crops. It had Dean pulling his jacket around himself up ahead as they walked from the car to the barn and when Sam covered his face with the back of his hand he tasted dust on his lips, watching Dean. He was trying to get over that coiled up, nervous tension he felt walking anywhere near trouble with him. If anything last year had taught them was that one small slip up could fuck it all up, and he'd lose him for good.

The barn was great and crumbling, and it took leaning against the door with all their combined weight to open it. Inside, though, was warm and smelled like wet earth and cows.

"There's blood in the hay over here, where the body was found." Sam crouched down to brush his fingers over the ground. The dirt was scuffed, dotted with an obvious blood splatter.

They walked the perimeter of the barn looking for anything else — bones, strange burn marks, symbols, another body — but aside from the blood there was nothing out of the ordinary.

Sam fell behind a little, letting Dean wander ahead. He watched how Dean was jumpier than before. Guy had always been a little high strung, but now it was worse, like he was almost hoping for something to jump out at any second so he could waste it.

"I'm thinking there's nothing else here," Dean called back, disappointment in his voice.

"Yeah," Sam said. "I— Crap."

Dean glanced over. "You okay there?"

"It's nothing," Sam said, waving him off. He stepped gingerly, and fake-winced."I just stepped weird on the side of my foot."

"You didn't hear any bad noises?"

"No, Dean. I'd know if I'd broken my ankle."

"You going to be able to walk on it?"

"Of course I can walk on it." He really had stepped on it funny, but normally he just ignored small injuries. There was something embarrassingly liberating about complaining like this.

"Jesus," Dean said. "Stop making that face. Sit down for a second."

He came over and put an actual hand on Sam's elbow and squeezed, and Sam followed the tug of his hand, feeling only the tiniest bet guilty. He let Dean lead him over to some bales of hay, where he was told to sit down and shut up. The bale was soggy when he sat on it, but it was worth how Dean ran a hand down his leg, from knee to ankle. Sam let his knees fall wider, and felt Dean's hand pause.

Dean cleared his throat. "Stay here a sec."

He left the barn, which gave Sam the time to get control of his face before he smiled and ruined it.

When Dean got back, he fell to his knees between Sam's legs and grabbed Sam's foot. "Stop swinging. Where's it hurt?"

"I don't know," Sam said, watching the top of Dean's head. "Kind of everywhere?"

Dean looked up then. Suspicion was clear in his eyes, maybe amusement."Sammy, are you fucking with me?"

Sam's eyebrows pulled together in offended indignation.

"No," he said. "And I'm fine. Let go. You're the one who got me to sit here like I'm some freaking damsel in distress. I can totally walk. Let me up."

He was such a good actor he almost believed himself for a second. Dean rolled his eyes.

"Such a baby," he muttered, and started unlacing Sam's shoe for him. Sam leaned back on his hands and Dean pulled the boot off by the heel, holding Sam's foot gently in one hand. He touched the area around Sam's ankle and rubbed his fingers over the top of Sam's foot, looking up to gauge Sam's reaction.

"There," Sam said after a second, sucking in a breath.

"All right."

Dean wrapped an ace bandage tightly but not too tightly around the top of Sam's foot and up around his ankle, then back. Sam, meanwhile, watched how Dean was intent on the task, mouth parted just a bit. Maybe he'd always been a mouth breather and Sam hadn't realized. It was a long, quiet moment, birds and cars outside but silent and warm in the barn around them, and the tension was gone from Dean's shoulders when he looked up still holding Sam's foot in his hand. Sam looked back at him, mirroring Dean's half-smile accidentally.

Dean ducked again to slip Sam's shoe on for him again, tying the laces bunny-eared. "Better?"

"Yeah," Sam said, and had to blink out of it when Dean touched his knee and then stood.

"Can I help you boys?"

Dean turned and Sam stood and stepped up behind his shoulder. A man was in the doorway, in a checked shirt and a pair of overalls. 

"You the owner of this building?" Dean asked.

"Sure am." 

Dean flashed a badge, both of them heading over. ""FBI. We're here looking into the death of Rick Jackson, Mr.—"

"MacDonald."

"Mr. MacDonald," Sam said, elbowing Dean before he could say anything. "Is there anything you can tell us about how you think the body ended up in your barn?"

"Sure as hell can't. I've owned this land thirty years, and nothing happens on it. Some corn grows but besides that, nothing happens. How some killer came to use this barn as his ritual killing site is beyond me. Now, if it's all the same to you, I'll ask you to get the hell off my property."

"Do you know who could have done this?" Sam asked.

"No I do not. And it ain't smart to trespass in these parts," Mr. MacDonald said, scowling. "You agents would do well to remember that."

Sam nodded. "Thank you for your time."

The guy watched them leave.

"Wow, just...wow," Dean said once they'd walked out of the barn into muggy daylight.

"You know, I think they just dumped the body here," Sam said. "That guy didn't look like the type to join a cult."

"Doesn't look like he's done that much socializing in years, actually." Dean stopped. "Hey, are you okay?"

Sam frowned. "Yeah?"

"No, your ankle," Dean said, and Sam remembered to limp a little. "See? You're favoring it."

"Am not," Sam said. He felt kind of like an asshole, but then, Dean had been kind of an asshole since he gotten back from Purgatory, so it felt somewhat justified. Although he'd mainly been an asshole because Sam had been an asshole, and really just—

Dean stepped in closer. "Here, dude. Let me."

"What? Dean!"

"Put your arm over my shoulder. Seriously, it's like you've never been injured before or something."

Sam slung his arm over Dean's shoulders with a huff but then flattened a hand over Dean's chest. Dean put an arm around his waist and said, "Okay then."

If Dean wanted Sam to lean on him, well, he would, which meant Dean muttering something about Sam being a heavier than a dead yeti while tugging him in closer against his side. The whole situation should have been pretty embarrassing, they were grown men and Sam had half a foot on Dean, but no one was around except maybe that farmer. And it had always been kind of a turn on how Dean could totally carry him if he needed to, had his arm solid and tugging Sam in against him with his hand pressed into Sam's waist.

He leaned shamelessly against Dean and felt him compensate, and when they reached the car Sam didn't immediately pull away and Dean didn't let go, either.

They had Subway for dinner, sandwiches made by the slowest sandwich maker they had ever encountered in their long history of gas station Subway stops. When they got to the motel, Sam turned on the TV and settled onto a bed with pillows propped against the headboard.

"This town is weird," Dean said, standing by their bags. His mouth probably tasted like mustard, but Sam still wanted to tug him down to his level and kiss him. Unfortunate.

"Yeah."

"You still look like you have frostbite," Dean told him.

"Frostbite," he repeated.

"Yeah. Even your teeth are blue. Man, what a shitty way to die."

Sam had had at least five more blowpops and yeah, Dean had absolutely not noticed. He was officially scrapping that idea. He'd get cavities the way this was going, and they didn't have healthcare.

"You mean if I had frostbite you'd just leave me out there in the snow?" he said.

"Nah." Dean came to sit on the bed next to him, grabbed the remote. "I'd rescue you."

"Valiant."

"Totally. I'd hotwire a snowmobile. Get some dogs to dig you out."

"Liar. You'd probably be freezing with me."

"No, I'd totally save your ass." Dean stretched out a leg next to Sam's, rubbed his palm along his thigh and Sam watched.

They sat through three consecutive commercials about cleaning supplies. They hadn't sat like this since before Dean went to Purgatory, with Sam prodding at Dean and Dean giving back calmly, playing what-if. Sam had to remind himself to keep it together. Eye on the prize, or whatever, test it out.

"You said earlier, I was dead weight," he said. "So what, in this frostbite scenario you'd just throw me over your shoulder and caveman carry me out? I don't think you're strong enough."

"I could do it. But yeah, I'd probably end up dragging you out by an arm," Dean said easily. "But yeah. That's the general idea."

"Yeah? You'd save me?"

"You betcha." There was a beat, then Dean said, "Hey, Sam. You got something to say, you can just say it. You know that, right?"

Sam froze up with dread. He heard the actual ticking of the room clock over whatever show was running.

"All right, nevermind," Dean told him, before swinging his legs off the bed. "Going to shower." 

When the door clicked shut, Sam muted the TV and listened to the white noise of the water and the white noise of the cars outside in the night, quietly freaking out. He'd been trying to get Dean to react, not call him out. But Dean probably was shooting in the dark, he could have meant anything, probably didn't get it.

Yeah. Sam couldn't think about it. He rotated his right foot, and felt a throbbing, and eventually he lay back with his hands folded on his chest, head tipped back on the pillow, staring at the ceiling and listening.

He woke up on his back still, hand on his stomach, suffering the end of a dream about demons, the familiar kind. He tipped his head to the left to check Dean was there, on his front in the bed opposite, one hand under the pillow and his face smashed into it, hair sticking up.

Sam watched him sleep like always, like he used to when he'd had psychic nightmares and slept three hours max, that comfort in Dean being there, or when he'd been soulless and hadn't understood the finer things like the gentleness around Dean's eyes when he was out, or Dean's mouth which was open in an unattractive way on the pillow, breathing real air three feet away.

He got up to go to the bathroom and shower, and then got dressed and set up his computer at the window table. It was six-thirty and chilly. Sam scissored the blinds open to look, and saw the sun rising as warm light from behind an old theater and a barber shop.

When Dean started shifting around, it was seven-thirty and Sam has spent a productive hour or so learning all there was to learn on chest carvings. He didn't know what information was actually useful in this case, felt like he was reading the same material over and over again, but he had his doubts about that professor ever getting back to them.

"Coffee?" Dean croaked.

"You get your ass out of bed, and we can go," Sam told him, watching Dean grumble and head into the bathroom.

They went back to the bakery. When Charlene came by with coffees, Dean reached over to grab the mug out of Sam's hand. 

Sam told Charlene, "Yeah. Waters, too. Thank you." and then looked back to Dean. "You done?"

"Yeah." Dean blew on the coffee and took a sip, then handed it back. "It's good."

"Yeah." Sam paused, watching Dean blow on his own. Dean had been taking Sam's food since forever, drinking out of Sam's coffee first, a weird thing he did. But this morning Sam had a suspicion that—

"Were you temperature testing my coffee?" he asked, incredulous.

Dean looked up. "What?"

"You drinking it first. Is that why you always do that?"

"I just don't want you to burn your mouth, baby."

"Huh?"

"I said, don't burn your mouth, you big baby."

"Oh."

Dean smirked because normally Sam got all pissed about Dean calling him shit. This time, though, he sipped his coffee and switched gears. On the off chance Dean knew what he was doing, Sam could still one up him.

"I love it when you call me that," he said, seriously as he could, and smiled when Dean choked on his coffee.

Dean coughed and said, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I do, though," Sam said, knocking their knees together under the table. "Like it. Really. Feel free to continue embarrassing us both by calling me ridiculous names."

Dean picked up the newspaper and opened it and then considered him over the top of it, face unreadable before saying, "Well, maybe I will."

Sam leaned in, "Yeah, you do that."

Dean muttered, "Just want to make you happy, sweetheart."

Sam groaned and Dean laughed, obnoxious really, but Sam couldn't help a real smile and, when he looked up, Dean was smiling, too.

The food came and Sam had fried eggs with potatoes and hot sauce. Dean cut into his pancakes, a stack five deep, and poured syrup all over them.

"Hey, you in there?" Dean asked, and sucked syrup off of his fork. Sam watched him and shifted in his seat.

"Yeah, I'm fine." He tugged on his pants leg under the table and Dean's eyes flickered. "So, the case."

His voice didn't crack, thank god, but Dean was watching him, letting him fumble and continue, like he wasn't surprised. The idea that Dean had known this whole time was ludicrous, but it was giving Sam all sorts of trouble concentrating anyway as he flipped the folder open between them on the table.

"It's a local cult or coven," said Sam.

"You thinking witchcraft?"

"Well, witches don't usually just dump the body, so I'd say no. But I don't think we should rule out magic. And this could be a crop thing, I guess."

"Great. So basically we just have to figure out who's involved, where they meet, and why they're sacrificing people." Dean threw down the paper. "We've sure made a lot of headway."

"Well, we know Rick Jackson came here."

"Maybe it's time to ask the locals." Dean raised his eyebrows at the server who was pretending to dust off the top of the display case near them, but really watching him right back. "I'll go get her to show me the back room or whatever, ask her about the place, the town. Who knows, maybe they're running a cult out of their kitchen."

"I'll come with you," Sam said.

"You shouldn't be walking around that much."

"What?"

Dean nudged Sam's foot under the table. "Your ankle. Just want to make sure you don't walk on it too much."

"Seriously?"

"Better stay off it." Dean grinned. "Watch our drinks?" He stood, and went and had a quiet conversation with the server, then called over, "Sam, I'm going to let—" he turned to the girl. 

"Beth."

"—Beth here, show me where they make the cupcakes. You sit tight, princess."

Sam scowled at Dean, who followed Beth behind the counter and into the kitchens.

Sam picked at his food until Charlene put another plate solidly in front of him. It had a cupcake on it. When he looked up questioningly, eyebrows raised, she said, "You looked like you needed it. On the house."

"Sorry?"

"Overheard you," she said, unapologetic, nodding to the swinging door. "Anyway, do you really think the killings lately were done by a cult?"

Sam sipped at his coffee, didn't touch the cupcake. He wasn't in the mood for dessert. "Well, it's all educated conjecture at this point, but it looks like it."

"Scary."

"Yeah, it really is." He sat back. "So, you don't happen to know what's going on, do you? Save us a lot of detective work."

"Sorry, princess," she said, and laughed when Sam groaned. She said, "So, that an official title or what?"

Sam sighed and looked over to the door to the kitchen. "He sure seems to think so."

"Kind of what everyone wants, though, isn't it?" She gave him a pointed look before she moved away to serve customers at the bar, calling over her shoulder, "And that advice is free, too."

The morgue guy didn't even look surprised when they came in after breakfast. "Expecting to see you two."

"Yeah," Dean said. "Why's that?"

"Well, there's been another body?"

Sam looked to Dean, who raised his eyebrows.

"Surprised that wasn't reported," Sam said.

"Oh, stuff takes a long time in this town," Dennis said.

"But it's a murder."

"Well, like I said, small town, stuff goes around but doesn't get officially reported right away. The way these things go. So—" He opened another cold unit and pulled out the tray. Different body, same carving.

"Found in the same spot?" Sam asked.

"Yup, in old man MacDonald's barn," he said not even cracking a smile, because someone had died and he'd probably even known him. "Naked as the day he was born with this cut into his chest."

"Any visitors?"

"No, and guy's wife had just left him. Talk about a bad day."

Dean frowned and moved over to the counter and flipped open the file.

"Stomach contents?" Sam asked.

"Hazard a guess?"

"Cupcake?"

"Got it in one."

Sam tried to meet Dean's eyes but Dean was still looking down at the file. "All right," he said.

"You think that's significant in some way?" Dennis asked.

"Probably not."

Dennis leaned in. "Hey, you need any field help, you tell me. I'd love to go out there and help my country catch a killer, get my hands a little dirty."

"That's nice of you to offer," Sam said. "But—"

"Sam," Dean said. "Let's go." He closed the file and headed for the door.

Dennis gave Sam a look and Sam shrugged. Dean was holding the door, waiting, and Sam had a stupid idea.

"Here," he said. "Let me take another dirt sample."

Dean made an impatient noise that Sam ignored. He went to the body and took a clean scalpel but then expertly fumbled it, a slight of hand.

"Oh." He took off the glove to look at the small cut on the heel of his palm."No, wait, it's nothing, I'm not—"

"Jesus," Dean said, and came over, moving Sam's arm to indicate leaning against the counter. Sam pretended to suffer it, but followed right away, leaning into Dean's side.

"I'm fine," he said.

Dean grabbed a paper towel and wetted it with water just a little and wiped at the cut. It did sting, but not really enough to make Sam wince like he did. "How's that feel?"

"It feels fine. Thanks," Sam said, quieter so that Dean even looked up, met his eyes and held. Kind of made Sam want to do something stupid, like curl their fingers together or cut his heart out.

Dean looked away and stepped back, grabbing the folder and looking happier. "All right, stop your complaining. Let's go."

Sam took a second to gather his file and the lab guy whistled through his teeth, eyebrows climbing up to certain heights after Dean left.

"That was low," he told Sam.

"Look," Sam said, but then stopped. He could defend himself, explain how he killed monsters every third day and could bench press three hundred, easy. He could explain how he was desperately in love with his brother and wasn't ashamed to use backhanded methods to make that happen, how Dean was his and so he had a free pass to fuck with him.

But it wouldn't make sense to any other person. Shouldn't have to.

"You don't know anything about it," he finally said and followed Dean out.

Dean was idling by the car.

"Hey," Sam said.

"Look," Dean said. "You head to the library and look up all records of droughts and unexplained shit in the area. My money's on a crop thing, the only concrete thing we've got to go on is two bodies found in a barn."

"Okay, but where are you going? Bakery stake out?"

"Bakery stake out. Somehow the two are connected."

Sam frowned. "You going to get Beth to show you the back room again?"

Dean smiled but it was kind of mean. "What, Sammy, you jealous?"

"No."

"Look," Dean said. "I'm not going to sleep with Beth. In fact, I'm not going to sleep with _anyone_ while we're on a job. But maybe after—" He raised his eyebrows somewhat significantly. Sam saw red.

"Wow, Dean. Real mature. Tell Beth I said 'hi.'"

"Not Beth," Dean said, looking flustered. He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck and looked at his feet and then up at Sam through his eyelashes.

Charlene, then. Sam felt an ugly twist of jealousy in his chest. "Whatever."

"No, I mean," Dean said. "Sam. I'm saying it's not off the table. Not at all. I'm saying, hopefully _afterward_ , you get me?"

Sam turned and started walking away, down the sidewalk toward the library.

"Sam," Dean called after him. "You've got to be kidding me, how can you not—"

Sam raised his folder and called over his shoulder, "Bye, Dean."

He spent all afternoon in the library, forcing himself to pay attention to the case, the task at hand. Stupid to get your hopes up, he tried to remember.

He went through land deeds and strange occurrences that had happened around MacDonald's parcel of land, to see if the killings were specific to that spot for some reason. He didn't turn up much, just a car crash along the highway right there and a year drought in the 90s but that was it. In short, he'd been there for hours but came up with nothing.

When his eyes were starting to ache and his attention wander, he called Dean.

"Hey," Dean said. "Crop thing?"

"Not a crop thing," Sam said, phone held against his shoulder as he grabbed his bag. "Bakery thing?"

"Might be a bakery thing."

"Yeah? Why? Someone go ritual killing on you?"

"What's with all this testing shit? Did I say something recently that made you doubt my skills?"

"Sorry, I'm just," Sam stuck a hand in his pocket. He let out a breath, remembering that he was being kind of a douchebag because he'd gotten irrational, decided Dean was into him the way he wanted, wasn't Dean's fault. "I'm kind of ready for this case to be over."

"Yeah," Dean said. "Hey, you come take over and I'll go check out the other dead guys, the ones from before. Talk to their families, whatever. See if there's a pattern."

"All right, sounds good."

"See you in fifteen."

The bakery was an easy walk. It was just past seven, crisp and dark, and when Sam was a block away he could see the bakery window all lit up, Dean a lonely silhouette of a guy sitting by himself at the window table. It made Sam's heart pick up like a jackhammer.

He walked faster, his hands in his pockets against the wind. When he got to the place, he could see Dean was bent over looking at something.

When he stepped in with the tinkling of a bell over the door, Sam thought maybe he saw relief flicker on Charlene's face, like she was glad Dean wasn't going to sit there all night alone. The place was otherwise empty, and Sam felt a frightening amount of protective ownership as he reached the table and put a hand on Dean's shoulder.

Dean tensed but it was gone in a second. He leaned back into Sam's hand and looked up at him. It felt like they were buoyant in a still moment.

"Hey," Dean said, eyes crinkling. "How's my girl?"

Sam blinked at him. "What."

He saw that Dean was still holding the thing, a picture, his wallet tossed on the table in front of him next to a coffee half emptied. The photo was folded stiffly in half so a crease ran down the middle from constant refolding and Dean held it up for Sam to see. Sam tried to grab it but he pulled it away so that Sam had to lean in over his shoulder to look at it.

"Ugh, Dean," he said, straightening up again. "Put that away."

"It's hilarious," Dean said, folding it and slipping it in his pocket preemptively, knowing that Sam would want to take it and rip it up. "Not to mention adorable. Runs in the family, obviously."

Sam slid into the booth across from him. "At least hide that somewhere."

"It's hidden." He looked past Sam then. "Hey, Charlene."

She put a mug of coffee on the table in front of Sam and Sam smiled up at her. "Thanks."

"You need anything else you holler," she said.

Sam kept the pleasant expression in place until she walked away, then he turned back to Dean. "How do you still have that?"

The picture had been taken when he was seventeen and ditching for lunch with Dean. They'd gone to a diner by the train tracks five blocks from school, and in the picture he looked pissed, wearing a tight blue t-shirt, stupid jeans, leaning on his elbows looking at Dean across the table. Dean had taken it because of the barrettes and of course the lipstick, which Sam remembered Dean had stolen at an AM/PM and then held out over the table for him to put on.

Now, a decade later, Dean's knee rubbed against Sam's under the table as he said, "Oh come on."

Sam felt hot under the collar and put his hands over his face.

"Sammy."

"Can't believe you even have that," Sam said, spreading the fingers of his hands to look at him through the cracks.

"Before the digital age, have to hold onto these things," Dean said.

"How long's that been in there?" Sam watched from the corner of his eye as Dean slid the picture back out of his pocket and under a fake card inside his wallet like it belonged there. "That was just—"

"Just for us. How many people have you shown?"

"Irrelevant," Dean told him. "I like it."

Sam gulped some of his coffee and thought about Dean pulling the picture out at bars to show the interested bartender or uninterested parties to his right. He imagined how Dean would explain it and got a queasy, happy feeling that made him look out the window and stretch out his legs so they were bracketing Dean's under the table.

"All right," Dean said, standing a minute later. "I'm going to go knock on a couple doors. See if there's a pattern. There has to be something."

"I guess I'll see if I can get some more info from Charlene as long as I'm here."

"Something about that waitress chick that got you?"

"What?" Sam frowned. "No. Why?"

"You can tell me, man, I've been there."

"No, she just seemed like she might know something." Look on his face meant Dean was just making fun of him, anyway. "Dude, leave."

"All right." Dean stood. "Don't feel like you need to stop anything to call me, though, if you know what I'm saying."

"Go."

"Yeah, babe. Don't do anything stupid like get kidnapped by satanists."

Sam ducked his head and when he looked back, Dean was laughing to himself, walking away.

When he'd left, Charlene came over to top off Sam's mug.

"Working late?"

"I could ask you the same thing." Sam pushed back his hair and took the coffee. "Thanks."

"Does this situation call for a cupcake?" she asked.

"No," Sam said. Then, "Maybe."

She took a mini-cupcake out of the display case on the counter and put it down on a plate for him. "Go ahead," she said, and crooked her hip to lean against the counter. 

Sam looked up at her. "What?"

"Tell me all about it. I'm as good as a bartender but you'll remember your confession in the morning. Might make it better."

Sam touched the mug with his fingertips to warm them, feeling admittedly maudlin. "Well."

But he had no way of talking about it. All he could think was that unlike Dean, he didn't have any pictures of his brother on him at all times that he looked at in moments when he was alone. He thought about the past year and how he'd tried not to imagine anything about Dean at all, tried to forget, almost, because he knew that time stripped away reality to composite parts, there was no way to hold onto the whole thing.

"I hurt someone," he said instead. "I don't regret what I did but I regret that I hurt them."

"You in love with this someone?"

"No," Sam lied.

"This the same 'no' as 'no I don't want a cupcake'?"

Sam looked at his hands.

"Long time?"

Since forever. Since he was fifteen and realized there was the choice _not_ to love Dean. Since every time he'd relearned how Dean would save him in a heartbeat, had done it more times than Sam could count, how Sam would do it right back, in a heartbeat. How they were filled to the brim with each other.

"I don't know," he said instead. 

"Well, one sure way to cure a broken heart," she said, and nodded to the cupcake.

Sam laughed, and picked it up and peeled the wrapper. "Thanks," he said. He took a bite, and paused. The frosting smoothed over his tongue like thick powdered sugar and the cake part was moist and almost tangy. No wonder Dean had eaten both of his own and then Sam's, too. "Damn, this is really good. Really, really good."

Sam's phone vibrated then, and when he checked he had a text from that professor.

_The symbol's from a goddess of heartbreak, set to feed off the power of those suffering the same. Where do you find these things?_

A second message rolled in, immediately following the first, and Sam read half of it but his eyes were going unfocused.

_I still have yet to receive any of the benefits I've been promised by the federal government. I'd like to write this off on my taxes if you could send the—_

"What—" Sam said, head slumping into his arms.

"It'll all be okay," he heard Charlene say.

When Sam woke up he was on his back. There was a lot more blood than he would have imagined; it shouldn't have been a surprise but it always was.

You go in thinking one thing and getting another, Sam thought with resignation until he realized he was blinking his eyes open instead of shutting them to sleep.

He turned his head and looked for Dean but saw a steel counter and a rack with some dishes instead of a motel bed.

"Wha—"

When he moved, his shoulders slid against cold metal, and he was hit with a biting awareness of pain on his chest. Looking down his front for a second was long enough to see that someone had had no qualms about carving him up.

He wisely lolled his head away and tried to take stock of his surroundings instead. It was dark, he wasn't in the morgue, he was in a kitchen. The bakery kitchen most likely. There was a couple votive candles flickering and a paper baker's bag slumped where it had been dropped and an explosion of flour across half the floor. 

He coughed twice and then rolled off of the table, landing on his feet and holding the table for a second to regain equilibrium.

A sudden, loud banging came against the far doors, followed by shouting. Then the shouting cut off all was quiet, which was more unnerving than anything. Sam almost knocked over a two cup measuring cup full of what he thought might be his own blood, but he caught it and put it back on the counter. There was an overwhelming smell of sulfur in the air.

"Dammit," he mumbled.

Another shout came from out of the kitchen and it broke him out of his stupor. He loped out of the room, pushing through the swinging doors into the front of the bakery.

Past the display case, about ten people were gathered by the windows. Two guys were dead or knocked out cold and a handful of women were glaring daggers at Dean who was standing a couple feet away glaring back, holding his hand funny, but otherwise unharmed.

Sam stepped out. "Jesus, Dean. Did you just beat up the whole wait staff?"

"See if I do any more rescuing," Dean said, "if that's the thanks I get." He looked over his shoulder, checking Sam over. "You good?"

"Yeah, I'm good."

He gestured to Sam's chest and grimaced. "Jesus, look at that."

Sam didn't look down. He'd already seen it. "How's your wrist?"

Dean shrugged, but then Sam heard a sound behind him and had grabbed a napkin dispenser and swung around.

"Sam, stop!"

Sam pulled up just short of braining the guy who'd been coming up behind him. The guy whimpered and shrunk to his knees with his hands up, dropping a butter knife with a clatter. Sam looked questioningly at Dean.

"It's just people," said Dean. He waved at the guy, who crawled over to the group of men and women huddled together. Some of them looked frightened, some angry, but the majority of them looked blank-eyed and checked out.

Sam asked, "You sure?"

"Positive."

"It smelled like sulfur in there. You sure it wasn't—"

"Rotten eggs," Dean said.

"Oh."

"Yeah, go figure. Y'all need to make sure you're up to health code," he told the group. "That's just sick."

Sam put the napkin dispenser back on the counter near the straws. 

One man half stood, looking indignant. "What do you mean, just people?"

"Hey, John Smith," Dean barked. "Now is not the time."

"You can't tell me what to do in my family's bakery."

"Oh, yeah? I've got a .45." Dean pulled it out of the back of his pants and waved it around.

The guy sneered. "And that's all you've got."

Dean stepped over and leaned in, close to the guy's face.

"Oh this gun is the nice part. You just tried to ritual sacrifice my brother. You know how that makes me feel? I can take you apart, piece by piece, and destroy everything you love, how does that sound? Give you a taste before I get serious."

"Dean."

But the guy wasn't done. "This is against my right to—"

"Yeah, well I'm not law enforcement. I should rip the skin off your face and make you eat it but I know that makes my boy here queasy."

"Dean," Sam said again.

Dean turned away, a smug smile tugging and ugly at the corners of his mouth. Sam wanted to do unspeakable things to him.

"I got in here before they'd finished carving you up," Dean said. "Which is why you have...that smiley face thingy."

"So they didn't finish the ritual?" Sam asked. "Beth? Charlene?"

"No," Beth said. "Five more minutes and we would have, though."

"If he ends up with a scar in the shape of a smiley face," Dean said. "I'm gonna be pissed."

Sam shook his head. While Dean gave them all a talking to, a dramatic monologue to blow off steam, Sam pulled out his phone and called 911.

"Okay," he said after hanging up. "The cops are on their way. Let's go."

They used box rope to tie everyone together and then locked them in the bathroom, then closed with a chair wedged under the handle.

"That should hold them."

By the time Sam had gone back to the kitchen and got his shirt, there were sirens in the distance.

"Wait," Sam said. "What's that smell? It smells like—"

"Red velvet cupcakes," Dean said grimly. "You really don't want to know."

"What?" he remembered the baking supplies, the blood in a measuring cup. He stared at Dean. "You can't be serious."

"Yeah, believe me I wish I wasn't. Anyway, they've got loads of the stuff in a fridge, cop's are gonna find it. Belongs to the dead guys, so. Let's go."

They hightailed it out of there.

Along the way back to the motel, they stopped by a pharmacy because they needed gauze and some antibacterial something or other to kill germs because Dean said the whiskey they had was strictly for drinking after a night like tonight. Sam rubbed a hand over his chest, then hissed because damn that stung. His shirt felt wrong over the cuts.

"Stop touching," Dean said before getting out of the car.

While he was inside getting stuff, Sam tried to get comfortable but his entire body was aching. He checked his phone. Five messages. He clicked his password and then leaned back and closed his eyes to listen.

"Sam," Dean's voice said on speakerphone. It must have been right after Sam had passed out because he hadn't felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. "First dude's family I visited said the guy was killed right after his boyfriend had broken up with him. The two other guys had issues in love, remember? It must be some cult preying on the poor bastards."

_Beep._

"Sam, call me back, okay? Your phone's not dead, it's ringing. So stop stuffing your pie hole and call me. I'm at the second house. Interrupted their dinner, boo hoo. I guess this guy's wife had just died. He was heartbroken. Pattern holding strong. Also, I checked and found out last place he was seen was the bakery. I don't know how that fits in, but it's something. Maybe the killer hunts there."

_Beep._

"Sam I know things have been weird but you gotta call me back. I'm getting worried, man. Call me."

_Beep._

Dean's voice sounded freaked when it said, "It's the cupcakes, isn't it? I'm on my way over. Call me right away if you get this."

_Beep._

Sam tugged at the collar of his shirt again and rubbed his hair back away from his face, and listened to Dean's next message.

"Goddammit, Sam. You're freaking me out, but there's no reason they'd take you. You don't fit the—" There was a long pause, and Sam knocked his head back against the seat twice. Dean said, "Sam— Shit."

_Beep._

Sam was just sliding his phone back into his pocket when Dean got back into the car, tossing a bag of supplies into Sam's lap.

"Let's get you feeling better," Dean said. "And gimme one of those lollipops you've been eating. Hero-ing works up an appetite."

Sam passed one over and Dean unwrapped it and stuck it in his mouth.

The ride was quiet. Sam considered Dean's hands on the wheel while the car hummed its way back to the motel which stood bright like the one oasis in the middle of the dark night.

As they were pulling in, parking, Sam said, "I'm not heartbroken, Dean." He rolled his eyes like it was obvious. Because he wasn't heartbroken, that would just be stupid. 

Dean unbuckled and looked to the phone in Sam's lap, and then back up to Sam's face before looking back to the door.

"You shouldn't be. Heartbroken implies there was a chance," Dean said mildly, and got out.

"Ha ha," Sam deadpanned, following him out, slamming the car door. "Thanks."

"Sam."

"Dean, shut up, I don't want to talk about anything."

"That's a first."

He trailed Sam into the room. Sam's instincts were telling him to run, but the conversation was over. Dean obviously thought he was heartbroken over Amelia. Dean didn't even know what they were talking about, and Sam was going to take pain meds and take a shower and go to sleep and try to forget everything.

"It implies there was a chance you didn't have me," Dean said, then, tone still mild. "You think that, Sam?"

After that, things got real awkward, real quick.

Sam didn't answer. He took off his shoes in silence while Dean scrubbing blood off his own face with his jacket, avoiding eye contact.

"I need to clean up," Sam said finally.

"Yeah. Come on, concussion boy."

"I'm not concussed."

"You're _always_ concussed," Dean told him. "You know how many times I've had to pick you up off the ground?"

"Whatever," Sam said, his face hot, a head rush. "Hey, I can't believe we called the police."

"Right? When was the last time we called in for backup and it actually helped?"

"And I can't believe it wasn't demons. I was totally sure right there at the end."

"Fooled," Dean said, with fake cheer. "I feel dirty. What ever happened to old fashioned monsters?"

"Right?"

Dean dropped his keys on the table and slung his jacket over the one chair, patting his back pocket for his wallet to make sure it was there. Sam was at the foot of the bed now, his hands going to his shirt buttons when Dean said, "Sam."

Sam pulled off his t-shirt so he didn't have to look at him, reaching over his head to tug it off by the collar. Dean rummaged around in a duffel, the chair and the TV in relief, from the half light they'd accidentally broken the first day they got there, another ruined motel fixture they'd leave in their wake. Dean had the blowpop in his cheek still and Sam felt dead on his feet.

"Hm?" Sam finally said.

"Watch it in the shower, okay?" Dean said, gesturing to Sam's chest, which stung now in places if he really cared about noticing it.

"Yeah."

"And you know," Dean said, hedgingly as he wiped a bloody hand onto the bedspread, "I know you've got your thing, but this is majorly not hot."

"My thing?" Sam said.

"You know...whole damsel complex thing, or whatever. You can do that, just, next time don't get carved up, okay?"

"Dude," Sam said. "Me? I wasn't— I mean, you're the one who gets all into—"

"Sam, come on," Dean said. "Nothing wrong for wanting a little attention. You know I'm all yours."

"Are you fucking with me?" Sam asked, trying to pick out any mocking in Dean's tone. He felt a certain conviction that this was not the way it was supposed to go.

Dean spread his hands. "I don't know how I can be any clearer."

Sam stood his ground, shoulders pulling tight, staring at Dean whose eyes were half lowered like he was about to shark someone, false innocence. Sam didn't trust it, felt his instinct was right this time and shifted on his feet, feeling the useless ace bandage and wondering if he could get to the bathroom casually or if this situation had been lost the second he hesitated.

"Sam?" Dean said again, voice almost stumbling on his name. "Come on, man. You can't leave me hanging. Tell me I'm wrong and I'll back off."

"Dude," Sam said as Dean came closer.

Dean sucked the blowpop from his mouth looked up at Sam in a way that pulled Sam's chest in separate ways. Sam gasped the second it happened, Dean raising the blowpop to his mouth, pausing there before pushing it against Sam's lips. Sam breathed in, a tiny parting of his lips and Dean pressed more firmly until Sam closed his eyes and licked it, pulled it into his mouth and hollowed his cheeks.

"You been trying to get me hot?" Dean asked, leaning in. Sam flinched back a little but Dean got his arm around Sam's waist instead. The blowpop was bubblegum flavored and sickly, and Sam bit down lightly when Dean pressed a finger in alongside it.

Dean pulled it out and threw it on the motel carpet, and then went for it and kissed the sugar from Sam's mouth, rubbing both hands along Sam's back for a full, quiet minute until Sam swung him around to push him up against the wall. He pressed into him, trying to get closer with Dean shoving back at his shoulders, saying, "Your chest, dude."

Sam bracketed Dean's head with an arm on either side and kissed him again and again while Dean slid his hands down the back of Sam's jeans and squeezed his ass through his boxer briefs, and Sam had to bite down against a groan, embarrassed that it was getting him so hard already.

Dean leveled him with a look before looking down between them, to where Sam's dick was pressed in an obvious way against his hip.

"Want me to take care of that?"

"Um." Sam said, then frowned, feeling suddenly and inexplicably angry, like Dean might still somehow be making fun of him. "I'm not usually this easy."

Dean shoved him back, hard this time, to look at him like he was crazy. "Dude, do you actually have a concussion? This is the opposite of easy. Are you listening to me? This has been very, very difficult. I have tried very hard in this situation."

"Oh," Sam said, watching Dean's mouth before he realized he could kiss him, and did. "Okay yeah," he said, like he always did when he was trying to get Dean to chill out. "Okay. You're right."

"Validation, is all I'm saying," Dean grumbled.

Sam didn't have time for his posturing, Dean'd wound him up this good he better follow through. "Get on the bed, Dean."

"Oh, so now who's—"

Sam pressed his hand lightly against Dean's chest, over his heart, and walked them over to a bed and shoved.

Dean went easy, falling onto his back and looking surprised, then like he was the luckiest guy in the world. Sam knelt down, a leg on either side and settled over him. Dean got up on his elbows and kissed him, immediately.

"Just go with me on this one," Dean told him, and reversed their positions, a slow tumble like when they were sparring but this time when Dean rubbed down against him Sam wasn't as freaked about having a hard-on, wasn't in high school about to run away, wanted to be here completely and totally. The hand on Sam's knee was rubbing circles instead of trying to hold him down to get an elbow in his face.

Dean kissed him and kissed him.

"Can I?" he asked against Sam's ear. "Can I fuck you, Sammy?"

Sam found Dean's mouth again. "Yes."

"Okay, all right," Dean said. He pulled his shirt over his head, finally, and Sam ran his hand up Dean's arm, squeezing while Dean asked,"You good?"

He laughed. "Oh my god, Dean, just do it."

"You getting embarrassed on me?"

"Fuck you," Sam said, pulling Dean down by the hips when Dean tried to reach over the side of the bed for his bag Sam rolled him over and kissed his way up his back, bit the warm nape of his neck, Dean struggling under him to get an arm over the side of the bed again. The struggling turned to broken moaning when Sam shoved his hand around and down the front of Dean's pants to feel his dick through cotton.

"Fuck yes." Dean splayed his knees and Sam got a leg between them while he jerked Dean slowly through his underwear. "Give me some room." 

He shoved Sam away to shimmy out of his jeans, kicking them off at the bottom of the bed. Sam could not believe this was happening, Dean pulling off his briefs one handed between them. Dean's hand joined Sam's jerking his dick before moving back to behind his balls, rubbing around, fingers slicked up with lube.

"You wanna watch?" Dean offered, which made Sam ache everywhere, possibly the dirtiest thing anyone had ever asked him. "C'mere."

Sam really did want to. He ran his hands up Dean's legs, squeezing as he smoothed over Dean's thighs, spreading them while he watched Dean's finger sink into his ass, moving slowly, with resistance, their harsh breathing loud in the quiet motel room.

"Add another," Sam said. When Dean did, he breathed,"Oh Jesus." and nosed the inside of Dean's knee, bit the skin there and then leaned his cheek there to watch Dean fuck into himself.

"Are your jeans still on, is that's what's happening?" Dean asked, voice weak.

Sam got up on his knees and unzipped with surprisingly steady fingers. He and Dean both groaned as he pulled his dick out, stroked it once. Dean was a hot mess, lying spread out under him. Sam couldn't even think, had to fumble around until he found the lube where Dean had stuck it under the pillow next to the knife.

He kissed Dean while he was up there, licking against his mouth, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth and then nosing against Dean's chin, rubbing their cheeks together while he slicked lube over himself, and then ran a finger over where Dean's were, felt Dean's hole tense up.

"Come on," Dean said, sliding his fingers out slowly. "For fuck's sake, Sammy."

"You ready?" Sam asked.

"Sam, I'm not joking if you don't fuck me I'm going to kill you myself."

"You're so good for me," Sam told him, and lined up and pressed in before Dean answered.

It was messy, and kind of uncomfortably hot. Dean wrapped a leg around Sam's back and urged Sam down, so Sam took the hint and humped his way in, pausing every time Dean winced to rub a hand over his arm, kiss his neck until Dean got pissed. Even so, Sam couldn't stop himself from saying truths with absolute sincerity until Dean finally put his hand over Sam's mouth, which Sam then pulled away and held to the bed while he fucked into Dean, pushing him down into the sheets.

Sam totally passed out afterward, which he felt could be excused in that he'd lost a lot of blood and then had all his dreams come true. It had been a big day. When he woke up it was to Dean dragging the comforter up and around them.

"Ew, no, you know where that's been?" Sam asked.

Dean ran a hand through Sam's hair, combing it back. "You seriously worried about that now?"

"Mmph," Sam said.

Sam made him scoot over so they could share a pillow. The bed was a double, if that, and Sam lay on his back until Dean reached a hand back and grabbed his far arm and made him turn on his side to tug him close.

"I know how you like to cuddle," he explained when Sam made a noise against the side of Dean's head.

"Right," Sam said, then laughed and couldn't stop.

"Oh my god, what?" Dean said. "I'm asleep, stop being a tool."

"Dude," Sam said, rubbing his hand up over Dean's chest. "Our fingers were just in your ass."

"Way to get right to it."

Sam smiled and got up an elbow so that Dean had to look up at him. He said, "This is the best thing that's ever happened to me."

Dean smiled, a real one, with crows feet around his eyes. "You creep. C'mere," he said, and tugged Sam down for a kiss. 

"Dean?" Sam asked before they passed out from sex and exhaustion and homecoming.

"What?"

"I really got you? This isn't some fever dream, right? That would suck, a lot."

"Hook line and sinker," Dean said.

They left the town behind right after checkout the next day. There was a sock balled up under one bed and a couple of crumpled up breakfast receipts on the table. Housekeeping would find the mini-soaps gone and the shampoo bottles half empty, barn dirt in the drain and a toilet paper roll on the floor.

Sam reached into the backseat while they were driving to grab a bag of peanut m&ms, fishing through the same old clothes and shoving past the same cassettes in the box that lived behind the driver's side, the ones that Sam never threw away despite how they could've just burned cds. He remembered how much he'd needed them when Dean was gone, long drives with his dog, listening to mullet rock with the road rolling out behind him.

They drove out of town on the highway, now, sun high in the sky and corn fields to the left and the right of them, with nothing but signposts spitting out behind them to mark where they'd been.


End file.
